


the one percent

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [23]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Condoms, First Time, M/M, Season/Series 06, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 13:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16661643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Dean's a pretty firm believer in 'no glove, no love.'





	the one percent

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked: _What is Dean's reaction upon finding that Sam's condoms are bigger than his?_ I may have flipped that around slightly.
> 
> Written for the SMPC on Livejournal. :)

"Hey, you listening?" Dean hadn't even taken his eyes off the road. He doesn't remember now where they were—a highway, somewhere. Meeting Dad somewhere else. Real specific. Trees on one side and empty dead farms on the other, and Sammy in the passenger seat trying to do his reading for some school they weren't ever coming back to. Real specific, yeah. "I'm trying to say something here."

"No, you're trying to be _gross_ ," Sam fired back, and Dean didn't need to take his eyes off the horizon to laugh at what he was sure was a _face_. Sam didn't deign to lay his brilliant thoughts out for the normals to hear. His ridiculous expressions did more than enough.

Dean slapped sideways, anyway, and he caught arm or rib or something because he got a yelp and a slap back, a _dude!_ and okay, that meant he had Sam's attention. Who cared about the book, anyway. "I was _saying_ ," Dean said, over Sam's bitchy grumbles, "this is important, squirt. You gotta wrap it up."

"Oh my _god_ ," Sam said, and Dean rolled right over the top of that and said, "You know they got all those diseases now? And I sure as hell don't want to be changing diapers and neither do you, and so if any girl's dumb enough to take you to her backseat or lets you climb into her window, you wrap it up." He slid a glance sideways and Sammy was all knotted up, his heels dragged up on the seat and his skinny knees folded into his chest, staring at the dashboard. "That's figuring that someone loans you a step stool so you can kiss the chick in the first place."

"Shut up," Sam muttered, and then screwed up his face even more like he didn't mean to even acknowledge it. Dean grinned and kept driving, and Sam said, still sounding sort of outraged even as he sounded kind of lost: "I'm _fourteen_."

"And?" Same age Dean was when Dad gave him the talk, and hell, he practically plagiarized the old man. Didn't actually come up for a while longer than that, but there was no way in hell he was gonna mention that to Sam. Dean lifted up onto one asscheek and Sam went _ugh!_ but Dean wasn't gonna rip one out—he fished his wallet out of his back pocket and kept the Impala's wheel steady with one knee while he plucked out a rubber with two fingers and whipped it easy across the seat. Sam caught it against his chest and then immediately looked like he wished he hadn't. "You think you're gonna get amnesia or something? Pretty sure you'll remember. And there you go, happy birthday, your very own johnny to call your own. Don't lose it."

"My birthday isn't for three months," Sam bitched, like that was the point. He was reading the foil, though, and even if he was blushing so hard he looked like he was going to pop a blood vessel, he was holding onto it.

"You don't ever go home with a girl without a rubber," Dean said. Mostly to make Sam turn darker shades of red, admittedly. Hell, though, he was doing his job. Dad wasn't around to do it. "Not ever. Just good manners to bring your own supply, first of all, and if she's not on the pill—hell, even if she is—you just want to be prepared. Right? Like a Boy Scout."

"Don't think that's part of the Boy Scouts," Sam said, after a second, but the condom disappeared somewhere about his person, and Dean cuffed him over the head, and he figured, okay. Sammy: lectured. Job well done. Anyway—dorksquad over there probably couldn't convince a girl to play a decent round of tonsil hockey, much less get some up-the-skirt action. Plenty of time to improve on his education. This was the first most important thing, though. Dean was on the wrong end of a wait for the minus sign exactly once, and he's seen a couple of sores he very much didn't want to experience on Little Dean. Embarrassing Sammy was a bonus; keeping him safe, that was the important thing.

 _Boy Scout_. That was the part he remembered best, after. Sammy rolling his eyes like he always did, and his groaning and shoving because Dean was _just the worst_ , and then joshing Sam about nastier and nastier badges he could earn until finally Sam laughed, reluctant but giving it up after about twenty miles of patient coaxing, so Dean could turn up the music and sail happy down the highway. He and the world were square, then. Everything was good.

*

Later: the hostess at the sports bar two doors down from the motel and she was a sweet little thing, tits up to there and eyes a hell of a lot dirtier than that smile and Dean was _in_ there, Dean was home. One problem.

"911, man," Dean said, crashing back through their room door. Sam jerked straight up off the bed, laptop flipping onto its side, and he was fumbling at his waistband while Dean arrowed straight across the room to where Sam's bag was sitting on the luggage stand. "What," Sam was saying, "what, did something—" and Dean shook his head, unzipping frantically, said: "I'm _out_."

Brief silence from Sam, while Dean dragged his bag over onto the bed so he could see better, pawing through the ridiculous oversized shirts and too-long jeans and dirty socks, looking for a flash of foil. "What the hell, dude," Sam said, and Dean looked up to find him holding his gun low at the ground, cocked shoulders, eyebrows swooped low. "What's the emergency? What are you looking for?"

"Rubbers, man!" Dean said, and Sam's expression flicked to surprise and then immediate bitchery. "Love gloves, raincoats, condoms! Tell me you got some."

A sigh, which Dean ignored, flipping clothes out onto the bedspread now. A paperback, Sam's spare pocketknife, bottle of aspirin, bottle of old antibiotics, and nowhere that telltale gleam. "Okay, first of all, this does not count as an emergency," Sam said, "and second of all, you're an idiot, and third of all, would you stop?"

"You haven't seen this girl, Sammy," Dean said. Maybe in his kit in the bathroom? "That v-neck top? Yeah, it's an emergency."

Sam put his gun on nightstand, shaking his head. "If it's such a big deal, why don't you have any?" He sat on the end of the bed and didn't object while Dean tore open his kit, flicking through the toothpaste and shaving cream, the rain-fresh deodorant that Dean maybe secretly stole because it smelled so good. Sue him, Sam's girly taste wasn't bad sometimes. "Hello," said Sam. "Earth to Dean."

"Unlike some people I actually _use_ my stash," said Dean, and then his stomach lurched a little, guilt catching up. He flicked a quick look at Sam, though, and Sam just looked his usual mix of exasperated and semi-mocking, which—okay, fine, that was fair enough. Madison was just a few weeks ago and Dean still wasn't totally sure if Sam had shed it, but at least Sam didn't have that look like he'd been socked in the gut anymore.

"Glovebox?" Sam said, and Dean shook his head, and then Sam sighed and said, "Looks like you're out of luck then, man. Try the gas mart out on the highway, they're open late."

"She gets off work in ten minutes, no time," Dean said, and then he shoved back from the bathroom counter and came into the doorway so he could see Sam, for real. "Hey, hang on. You really don't have any?" Sam shrugged and Dean put his hands on his hips, derailed totally. "I know your game's weak, but Sammy, that's playing it a little fast and loose, don't you think?"

An eyeroll and Sam stood up, shaking his head. "Okay, this is so not something we're talking about," he said.

He picked up his laptop and moved over to the table and Dean sort of followed, torn between scolding and making fun. "I don't want to know what Little Sam—what very, very Little Sam—gets up to," he started, and the look Sam lanced over was hilarious, but not enough to knock him off course—"but dude, for real. I know a bunch of chicks are on the pill now, but it's not worth the gamble."

"Oh my god," Sam said, his eyes closing.

"Seriously," Dean said, and ignored Sam putting his head in his hands, because this really was important. "When you—" He couldn't say Madison's name. That was still too raw and he wasn't that much of an asshole. He taught Sam better, though.

Sam groaned. "I just got out of the habit, okay?" He shakes his head, the weight of it still slumped onto his palms with his fingers dug into his dumb hair. "Jess was on birth control and it didn't—" His face was red when he finally looked up, but dropping _that_ name was way worse and Dean didn't realize, he didn't think—not that far back. Sam wasn't mad, though, even if the look slanting Dean's way wasn't exactly friendly. "Just out of the habit of buying them, okay?"

Since she died, Dean could count on one hand both the times he knew and the times he was pretty sure Sam had hooked up. He swallowed down the reflexive scolding that wanted to get out. Didn't need Sam comparing him to Dad again, especially since. Well.

"Whatever, man," he tried, and the immediate hitched eyebrows told how un-nonchalant it was, but hell, Sam could give him an inch here. "Safety first, that's all I'm saying."

"You're a role model," Sam said, dry as grave-dust, and Dean grinned because that's what Sam expected but he came and clapped Sam on the shoulder too, and hung on maybe a few seconds longer than he should. Sam's mouth twitched and he didn't shake Dean off, but he checked his watch. "Your girl's probably looking for you." He shrugged and his lips curved into that serious not-smile, the one when he was trying to hold back. "I know your imagination's pretty limited, but I promise you can have sex without condoms being necessary. You trimmed your nails lately?"

"Ugh, don't say stuff like that when I'm touching you," Dean said, shoving Sam's shoulder away, but Sam was already grinning. "You're gross, you know that? You're a nasty person."

"Oh my god, have you ever heard of the pot and the kettle?" Sam said, dimples popping all over the place, and Dean forgot about the condom thing in favor of catching Sam's head under his arm to deliver a seriously righteous noogie, except he forgot that Sam was seven feet tall now and he got pretty much suplexed onto the nearest bed for his trouble. In the subsequent laughing scuffle time slipped away somehow, and by the time he remembered and ran out with a breathless Sam panting behind him and yelling _make sure you stretch your tongue, wouldn't want to cramp!_ the bar was closed and the girl was gone, and Sam was the source of his blue balls for yet another evening. What else was new, really.

He stalked back to the room and looked in the window where Sam was reading again on his laptop, the corners of his mouth still hitched up, relaxed-looking for the first time in about nine hundred miles. Dean stood there for a few seconds, looking, and then he took the car and went out to the gas-mart and bought condoms anyway, and filled up the car and got a six-pack of the best beer they had and a bag of peanut M&Ms, and he went back to the room and took Sam's joshing and then they watched the shitty remake of Texas Chainsaw Massacre on pay-per-view, and he had a good night despite himself. Getting Sam to make that grossed-out face when Dean smiled at him with a mouthful of crunched-up chocolate peanuts was just a bonus, really. Sam fell asleep first, and Dean snuck five of the condoms from his fresh box into the inner pocket of his duffle, where he'd find them. Maybe Sam didn't want to talk about this stuff, and that was fine. One day, though, he'd be ready to get out there again, and he'd be prepared, and that's what mattered. Even if that took another year, or another ten. Dean zipped up the bag again and watched Sam snoozing solidly, his hair flopped over his face and his ridiculous long body splayed at an angle on the bed. The urge to smooth his hair back, to throw a blanket over him, rose and was pushed back, easy as it always was. He snorted, preface to some probably epic snoring, and Dean bit the inside of his lip. What a dork, he thought, deliberately, and went to clean his pipes in the shower.

*

Later, it was: years gone by, harder and grinding, every one like dragging across broken glass. Betrayals and fuck-ups, and throw-down fights that felt like the world ending, and dying. Dying again. Walking around in a world that felt half-empty and off-kilter, and slotting back into a place he recognized but that grated against his molars like biting into metal. Finally it came to a day when Dean couldn't take it anymore, and he dared everything because that was better than living like this for another minute, and when he got Sam's soul fitted back into Sam's body that was—that was—

Sam, smiling, and it not feeling like a con. Sam's hand on his shoulder, Sam's arms around him, crushing and honest. Sam's voice light and goofy and sincere and heavy with feeling and all of it pounding like a heavy cleansing rain against the bitterness that had shored up against Dean's heart, and—okay, okay. He breathed and felt like the air was right again. Sam in the passenger seat, and not just a half-baked version of something that could've been familiar. Sam. Dean nodded and shifted into drive and could barely tamp down the crap roaring up in the pit of his chest. He and the world, square again. Only—

After Bobby explains about Eve, about something they can't face yet but that's coming, Dean's feeling a little hard done by. "Can't we get a vacation, for once?" he says, and okay, so he's bitching, but Sam just groans and toasts him, and this maybe isn't the best bar in the world (Lionel Ritchie? Come on.) but Dean couldn't face Sam dancing carefully around the apologies he kept trying to feed to Bobby, so the bar it is. A beer turns into two, into five, and Sam's getting that soft worried look around the eyes again but Dean doesn't want it, doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want that river of misery spilling forth from Sam's mouth again, and he leans forward and presses three fingers against his half-open lips, denting the soft warm of them. "Sammy," he says, seriously, and Sam blinks at him from, oh, very close. Three fingers. Scout's honor. Dean smiles and says, "Sammy," and means it for the first time in so long, and says then, "Tell that nice girl that we need a bottle of the Jack, and you have to pick up the tab."

"Why me?" Sam mumbled, against Dean's fingers, and Dean didn't have a good answer. Sam was smiling, so—so maybe it didn't matter.

The motel. The Impala's the most gorgeous of the four cars in the lot and Dean pats her flank and tells her so, and Sam rolls his eyes but it's fond, and Dean can hardly believe it. He can't—Sam. Sam _here_ , and maybe they just went on that ridiculous hunt over in Oregon, dragons and girls and swords, but every vibrating minute when it's _his_ Sam and not that awful interloper is practically a miracle. He closes the door behind them both, hands balanced behind him on the doorknob, and watches Sam unwrap the little plastic cups from next to the sink, and watches him pour two nearly-full cups. His shoulders, broad as a mountain range. His back. Blue plaid today. Sam turns around and pushes his hair out of his face and finds Dean being a doorstop, and his mouth hitches up but it's not mean-spirited or making some nasty observation. He brings the cups over and Dean watches his hair catching the lamplight, his eyes soft and hard to see, kind of, but that's okay. Dean doesn't need to worry about them, anymore. Sam holds out Dean's cup and Dean takes it, and then Sam holds out his own cup for a toast and they bump together with a flat unsatisfying bop of thin plastic, and Sam snorts but takes a long swallow, anyway, lips pulling back at the sting. Dean swallows down his share, a hot coal dropping down to his belly, and he's—he's not drunk. He hasn't been drunk in a long time. He's warm, though, warm through like he's been sitting in front of a bonfire, and he drops the cup and grabs a handful of Sam's shirt.

Soft cotton, warm from the warmer skin below it. Sam's always run hot. He's looking at Sam's face because why on earth _wouldn't_ he and there's Sam's eyes, wide, his mouth parting and damp with liquor, his eyebrows high. "You look like—" Dean says, but he doesn't know how to say.

"What," says Sam, but he's not asking. Dean hasn't let go of his shirt and Sam's weight shifts, pulls him closer. Dean's knuckles bump against the flat plane of Sam's belly and he can't. He looks into Sam's face and he could stay here for a year but he can't do it. "Dean? You okay?"

"No," Dean says, and Sam's eyebrows immediately go all crumpled and worried and Dean laughs, digs his teeth into his lip to stop himself. "Yeah, I'm okay. I just." He tugs his grip on Sam's shirt back and forth, the world wobbling a little. He's not drunk. Sam's shoulders blot out the rest of the room, and it's worse when he leans closer, his boot settling alongside Dean's, his weight braced alongside and above and everywhere. He's still holding his cup, half-full against his thigh, and Dean says, quiet, "You going to drink that?"

Sam blinks at him, a slow sweep of eyelashes. All those colors. His cheeks have gone a patchy kind of pink, his eyebrows still tugged in tight but just concentration now, just watching Dean right back. Dean's chest clenches, his stomach swooping low, and he breathes open-mouthed while Sam lifts up his cup and takes two swallows, his throat moving as he drains the cup, and then Dean pulls him close with a hand in his shirt, reels him in so his face is pressed to Sam's throat. A clatter, the cup falling to the linoleum, and Sam's hands on his shoulders. "Dean," he says, his voice vibrating against Dean's mouth, and he smells—good, sweat and the Impala, warm skin. That trace of rain-fresh. Dean's teeth hurt, he's clenching so hard. Sam's fingers trace up the back of his head and he tips back into them, lets Sam catch the weight of his skull. Then it's Sam's downturned careful face, his shoulders curved in. Making a space that's just them. He says, stupidly, "Jesus, you're tall," and makes Sam's expression jump into surprise, and then he pushes up and kisses Sam close-mouthed, off-center, awkward as hell.

The surprise fails to register until a few weird beats of his heart have passed, and by then—Sam's pressed forward, knocking Dean back against the door with his hand braced so that Dean's head doesn't hit too hard, fitting their lips together right. His breath on Dean's skin, his nose pressed alongside Dean's. It's purely absurd, for a second, and Dean huffs a laugh right into Sam's mouth. "What," Sam mumbles, craning his head back. Dean shakes his head and pulls Sam back down, kisses him again, a roaring of highway wind in his ears, something trembling and fit to break where his breastbone ought to be. Sam's fingers drag along Dean's jaw, his throat, his cheek and ear, quick mapping, and one hand grips tight at Dean's arm, holding him close. The doorknob digs into Dean's lower back and his neck's craning from lifting to meet Sam and he can't believe they're getting away with this but they are. He tilts his head and Sam's nose brushes his cheek. The kiss that time makes such an audible smoochy sound that he pulls away, tips his forehead down against Sam's shoulder and laughs helplessly.

"You're ridiculous," Sam says, but quiet, and his hand's broad on the back of Dean's neck and his other hand comes down to close over Dean's where it's still tangled in Sam's shirt, and it's hot and dry and huge and comforting, which is just—so dumb. So dumb. What is wrong with him. "Are you having a breakdown or something?" Careful, worried.

"Probably," Dean says, into Sam's chest. "I don't care, do you?"

Sam's hand tugs at his and he lets go, finally. Feels unmoored, until they're clasped palm to palm. "Kinda," Sam says, quiet, leaning back enough that Dean has to look at him again. Knot of brows, his eyes full of something. Dean reaches up with his free hand and tucks his hair back behind his ear, history shuddering close against the now, but he just—he's tired of waiting and tired of missing Sam, and Sam sees something in his face because his expression changes, like that. "Really?" says Sam, wonder filling up his voice. Dorothy going from black and white to glorious Technicolor. "Dean, are you—"

"Yeah," Dean says, promises, warns. "If you—"

"God, don't even," Sam says, and gathers him up and kisses him for real, knocking his mouth open and a rush of tongue and heat and oh, god, _Sam—_

He's not drunk and neither is Sam, but the slide of warm booze in his belly is enough to make it funny when they knock into the bed, when he goes down with an _oof_. Sam's apologizing, his hands and mouth all worry, and Dean laces their fingers together and tugs him close. "You big oaf," he says, and Sam mouths _oaf?_ with his eyebrows arched high, but Dean grins and pulls him in and kisses him and that expression melts away pretty quick, it's safe to say. He's on his side and Sam's being so careful, touching him in surprising spark-shocks, chest and arm and belly. They've had their hands on each other all their lives but not like this, no matter that something's been growing there, unnamed roots twining together. "Giant," Dean mumbles, when Sam gives him air. "Sasquatch. Jolly Green."

"Oh my god, are you done?" Sam says, but he's dimpled up again and that's all Dean wanted.

Sam puts one of those big hands on the side of Dean's head, his thumb brushing Dean's mouth, and Dean's whole body shudders. Someone walking over his grave. Sam's eyelids go heavy and he pushes Dean onto his back and that's, that's fine, that means Dean has two hands free to push into Sam's hair and pull him down and kiss him again, Sam's thigh sliding in between his, his hip pressing down where Dean's, oh. God, yeah. His ass clenches, grinding up into the pressure, and he learns that Sam's a biter, teeth setting into his lower lip and tugging, a little sharper than he expects. He shivers, his leg drawing up against Sam's hip, and—yeah, yeah, Sam licks over his lip like an apology, setting Dean's pulse to jumping. "Jesus, you're killing me here," he says, tipping his forehead against Sam's. Their breath, together, and he slides his hands down Sam's back and Sam rocks in against him, a smooth roll, practiced and good. "Sammy, you've been holding out on me."

"Wasn't my idea," Sam says, low, and it's like a hook in Dean's gut. Sam's hand slides down his side, cups his hip and encourages Dean to lift up into the pressure and oh, that helps, that's—that's really good. God, they're still both totally dressed, their boots still on. Sam kisses his cheek, his jaw, and his hips move in a hitched circle and Dean realizes only then that he's got his eyes squeezed shut, his hands clamped over Sam's hips to keep him in place. "Dean," says Sam, scratched-up, "God, you're—"

"Pick one, Dean or God," he says back, and Sam snorts up against his neck. Sam's so heavy, muscle all over, and the tight pressure of them pressing together lights up in Dean's belly, his dick straining to meet the thickness of Sam's, and maybe Sam'll freak but he thinks maybe not, he thinks—"Sammy, you ever done this before?"

A huff and when he opens his eyes to the bright of the room, Sam's looking at him, so close Dean could kiss him—and he does, once, meltingly soft, but he pulls back. "Uh, maybe clarify on 'this,'" says Sam. He brushes Dean's lips with his thumb again, eyes dropping down, pooled out dark. "Unless there's something I missed from before, this is pretty new for me."

Dean blinks, and puts on a smile. "Can't forget a piece this fine." Sam's wall isn't something he wants to think about now—not something he wants Sam thinking about—and he braces his heel on the bed and shoves and rolls them over, Sam flopping onto his back with a grunt. Dean kneels over him, hands on his chest. Sam grabs his thighs, dark flush in his cheeks, and yeah, this'll do just fine. "I'll handle it, don't worry," Dean says, and Sam frowns at him but opens up when Dean leans down for a kiss, and Sam's hands slide pretty quick from Dean's thighs to his hips to his ass, squeeze tight and pull when Dean doesn't object, and yeah, this will do _great_ , this is everything Dean hoped for.

Shirts gone and Sam reacts in a very interesting way to a suck and then bite of one nipple, and he has a toothy obsession with Dean's neck that had better not lead to a hickey, because they're not fifteen anymore—but Sam grins at him when he suggests it and bites him again, quick and sharp, and maybe—maybe Dean doesn't care, so much. "You're a menace, you know that?" he says, and Sam says, "I do, actually," kind of smug, and Dean's heart soars so high he can hardly contain himself and he says, "Fuck," rough, rougher than he thought, and then, "Okay, I—hang on—" and climbs off of Sam on shaky legs, wrestles off his boots and socks in the stumble to his bag, abandoned in the entryway, and there he fumbles through. When he stands up again Sam's boots are off and he's sitting on the edge of the bed with this laser-eyes focus on Dean, and Dean comes across the room and goes down to his knees between Sam's, gets drawn into a kiss so long and full and searching that it's hard to remember why they ever waited, why all those years ago when random thoughts would bubble up to the surface he'd work so hard to drown them again, why he never asked. Why he didn't say yes, when the question was full in Sam's eyes.

"You're a menace," Dean says, when Sam finally lets his mouth go. His lips are tingling, kissed nearly numb, sore and full from Sam's teeth. It's about the best he's ever felt.

Sam presses his thumb against Dean's lower lip. "You said." Safe to say, he maybe has a thing, and Dean's throat bobs, thinking about that. He gets a smile and Sam's hands spread out on his shoulders, squeezing, just feeling him. Mapping new territory.

"Killing me, Sammy," he reminds him, and slides his hands up Sam's thighs. He swallows. "You want, uh. Want to take this further?" Sam sucks in a breath, muscle clenching under Dean's hands. "I mean, I'm happy to just make out, we can do this like a lookout point in high school, but I was hoping what with being a grown man—"

"Don't be a dick," Sam says, and Dean grins and then slips one hand up to the bulge pressing out Sam's fly. Makes Sam's eyelids flutter, but he catches Dean's wrist. "You—Dean, this is…"

"It's just me," Dean says. Sam's eyes flick up, lock on his. "Me and you. That's all."

"Yeah," Sam says, almost sarcastic, but his grip on Dean's wrist goes light. Permission. "Yeah, that's all."

He licks his lips and Sam's eyes drop. Yeah, definitely a thing. Why that winds up Dean's belly tight as hell, he'll have to look at later. For now—

He lets Sam draw him up to the bed again, lets Sam kiss him drunk and stupid and silly. He has lube, has condoms, and he knows Sam saw them but he doesn't make a move—instead it's Dean's belt, and his zip, and when Sam's hand wraps around his dick that's so close to game over that Dean almost folds over on himself to stop from coming. He wraps an arm around Sam's neck, keeps him close, pants into his mouth, and when he can get his head together away from Sam's hand moving in smooth deep pumps, a little too dry but _perfect_ pressure, how did he guess that right so fast—he reaches down, rubs Sam through his jeans, tries to get a little reciprocation going. God, it's—big, thick and filling his palm, and if Sam's tongue wasn't in his mouth all of a sudden he'd say so, holy shit. Sam twists his wrist and Dean's usually not the biggest fan of handjobs, it's work he can do himself, but this is something else. He squeezes back, makes Sam groan into his mouth, and his belly clenches and he doesn't want to come like this, he doesn't want—"Wait," he says, and Sam's hand stills immediately, "wait, hang on—"

Sam draws back, frowning, and Dean shakes his head fast. "No, I just want—" and he pushes his jeans down, wriggles them off so he's naked—really actually naked, with Sam, and Sam's eyes raking down his body in a flash is perfect, gets Dean so hot his dick flexes against his thigh, but he's not going to be alone in this. "C'mere," Dean says, tugging at Sam's belt, flicking open the buckle. Sam presses up on one arm, hand hovering like he wants to help, but Dean's got this—he shoves Sam lightly so he's on his back and pulls open his zip, and Sam lifts his ass to help Dean get his jeans off and Dean tosses them away and looks and—

"Oh my _god_ ," he says, sounding like an idiot, but—oh my god is right. Dean's been with a solid handful of guys, by choice and not, has seen far more than his share of porn, and this dick is… "And you just walk around with this thing," he says, looking up, and Sam's red-cheeked, really blushing. "Sammy, you got a gift."

"Shut up," Sam says, "come here," and so Dean does, he crawls back up the bed and lets Sam kiss him and their dicks brush, shivery pleasure that melts through his stomach, but he can't help it, he gets a hand down between them and feels it again, solid heat.

He'd almost feel embarrassed except that Sam's so obviously huge it doesn't even feel like a comparison. Dean's measured, he knows he's a good reasonable six and a bit, almost seven if he's feeling feisty, and he's had some smugness about that in his day. He squeezes Sam's dick and Sam's breath hitches, and god. Definitely longer, and _definitely_ thicker, this big gorgeous ridiculous thing, and god, Dean wanted Sam to fuck him before but now it needs to happen, he wants this, he needs this in him _yesterday_ and he rolls up to sitting, breaks the kiss and pushes their dicks together, almost lightheaded with want. Sam clamps down on his hips, absolutely getting the right idea. He knows he's staring, can't help it. Flushed dark, even wider at the base, and oh man, he sucks in a breath and says, "I don't even know if it'll fit," and Sam's face flinches, his hands clenching on Dean's skin, and yes, yes. Now.

This is stupid and Dean doesn't care. He leans back and grabs the condom packet, rips it open and gets the slippery circle in two fingers. "You ever get a stiffy and pass out?" he says, lightly, trying to distract himself. He rubs his dick against Sam's thigh so it doesn't do much good. "Rip a hole in your jeans? No wonder you hate strip clubs, huh, you can't exactly hide this thing."

"Dean," Sam says, flush burning deep in the hollows of his cheeks. Dean's surprised there's any blood left to get up there. He sets the condom on the big flared head and really has to push, sliding the ring down and down, his mouth watering as the thin latex goes an opaque dark purple, Sam's huge dick swelling it out, gleaming. It looks even bigger gloved up. He pushes down as far as it'll go, the ring clinging around Sam's base, and slides his fingers up in a loose circle just to feel the weight of the damn thing again, the thick vein on the underside, the whole thing slippery and smooth. His mouth waters and he swallows, and Sam says again, "Dean, are you—you sure—" and when Dean meets his eyes they're dark, his brow crumpled up, and Dean has to lean in and kiss him again so he doesn't try to crack his jaw on the stupid thing.

He rolls them over, gets Sam over the top of him. They press together, hips and thighs and chest. Heavy and huge, Dean's brother—Neil Diamond, eat your heart out. He spreads his legs and gets Sam between them, his heart hammering, and finds the lube, squeezes a handful out and smears all over Sam's gloved dick, gets his fingers between his thighs and pushes in, as much as he can. "I'm not gonna walk right tomorrow," he says, breathing hard, grinning through it. "Are you sure you don't need a license? Some kind of permit?"

Sam squeezes his eyes closed, ducks his head. "Shut up," he says, and the victory of embarrassing his little brother feels weird, maybe, right now, but Dean's honestly paying the highest of compliments. He hikes his thighs higher, tugs his fingers free, grabs at Sam's dick, only—only—he's softening up. Dean peers down, between them, and the mighty monolith of Sam is getting less mighty by the second, right there in Dean's hand.

He looks up in time to see Sam's face crumpling, humiliation sweeping in with his eyes closed, and he says, "Sorry," soft, so obviously drawing in and away that Dean wraps his thighs around Sam's waist anyway, pulls him in with careful hands on his cheeks and kissing him soft, steady. Sam resists at first, mouth still, but they just got this, they've friggin' _earned_ this and Dean's not letting go. He finds Sam's hand where it's planted on the mattress and holds it, and Sam sighs into his mouth, sucks Dean's lower lip soft and gentle, and with that Dean can finally pull back. Sam's bright red, streaky blush down to his throat, and Dean's been around the block enough to know not to take it personal, but—

"Sorry," Sam says, again, and Dean says, "Okay, you need to cut that shit out right now," in the softest possible way.

Sam smiles, in that Sam way where it's not a smile at all, and when he pulls Dean lets him roll off, flat on his back on the bed. He slings an arm over his face, shakes his head, and he's half-hard now, maybe, though even softening up his dick's the kind of big where it's impressive no matter what. The condom's rolled up and there's a red ring on the tender skin, where it must have squeezed tight—Dean's only had that once, when desperate times had him using what he could fish out of a bowl of free samples on a college campus and he accidentally got the peewee size. God, no wonder.

"Sammy." No response. He slips his hand over the so-flat muscle of Sam's stomach. After all the working out of the past year, he looks practically carved. Dean licks his lips, leans in, presses a kiss to the smooth skin over his ribs. Just a little wet, taste of salt-skin. "Sammy," he tries again, sing-songy, and Sam finally lifts up his arm, jaw clenched. "There he is. You think you're the only guy who ever went soft at the critical moment? Hell, Dan Marino's in the hall of fame for being a choke artist."

A pause, Sam staring at him. "Is this you trying to make me feel better?"

"Rather do that the old-fashioned way," Dean says, waggling his eyebrows, and Sam groans and lays back, hiding under his arm again. "Hey. Come on, it's fine."

Sam shakes his head. "I thought it wouldn't happen this time," he mutters. Dean frowns. "Not with you. Sorry, I should've—sorry."

The torn blue packet's still sitting on the bed. Good ol' Durex, Dean's standby, thin and lubed and also nothing special. He chews the inside of his lip for a few seconds and then, carefully, moves up and over, straddles Sam's thighs. "It hurt?" he says, even, and Sam pulls his arm away, frowning. He shakes his head, after a second. Dean slips his fingers around Sam's dick, letting it rest heavy in his palm. Tacky a little, but the skin's still thin and warm and hot, and Dean rubs his thumb over it, holding Sam's eyes.

"It's okay," Sam says, the self-sacrificing dork. "Don't have to."

"No shit, I don't have to," Dean says, and leans down, his own half-hard dick pressed against Sam's hip. "You don't have to kiss me, either, but let's say I wouldn't mind."

Sam still looks like he isn't sure. Like, having smashed down the walls of Jericho here, somehow Dean might back out. For a genius he's a friggin' moron, sometimes. Still—he leans up, cautious, and catches Dean's lips, and Dean lets himself sink down, pressing them together. Warm skin, top to bottom, and Sam's hand careful on the back of his head. Starting again. That's okay. Gives Dean a chance to learn Sam all over again.

Turns out: Sam likes to kiss, a lot. He kisses Dean past his lips buzzing, pushes him over onto his back and kisses him there, kisses him until Dean's not really sure how much time has passed and he's just trapped in the slow melting dark of their breath mingling together and Sam's mouth meeting his over and over, his hand still wrapped loosely around Sam's dick and the other buried in Sam's hair, keeping him close. Sam starts to jerk him off, somewhere in there, and with the lube it's slick and perfect, Dean's hips lifting into it, his belly aching and flinching with how good it is. No surprise, Sam kisses him through it, takes Dean's heavy breathing and makes it worse. He's getting there, fast, and he has to break away finally, slams his head back into the pillow because he feels like he's going to be pass out otherwise. Sam smiles at him, crooked, and then slides down his body and slips his mouth over Dean's dick like it's nothing, hard tonguing pressure at the head and his lips sealed, sucking. Dean's stomach lurches and his balls draw up so fast it's amazing they don't somehow cramp, and while he's still reeling Sam slips his lubed-up finger into Dean's ass and bobs down and Dean about vibrates out of his skin, he comes so hard, thighs spreading wide and hollering out who knows what stupid sound.

Sam suckles at him, takes the whole load. Dean's hips flinch up, his ass throbbing and clamping around Sam's finger, his nipples tight and his throat sore and his hands buried and clenched, oh, in Sam's hair, holding him down, and he lets go and coughs and says, "Fuck," when he meant to say sorry, and Sam tongues soft at the underside of his dick and looks up at him, pulling off slow, swallowing. "Fuck," Dean says again, and Sam grins at him, rocks his finger in and out before he slips it free, and Dean clenches on nothing, his breath shuddering in his lungs.

Slide back up, big hands slipping up his hips, over his chest, and at first Sam only presses closed lips to his but Dean corrects that right away, licking in and tasting his own bitter bleach. Gross, in that hot as hell sort of way. He pulls Sam in by the ass, tugging him close, and ah, there. Sam's dick, full again, thick and pressing into his belly like a bar. "You like that, huh?" he mumbles, lips moving against Sam's, and Sam bites him, soft but obvious. Oh, a tell. Good, he loves those. He pushes up into Sam, wraps a hand around that monster and squeezes below the head, rubbing it against his skin. He wants it still. He can wait. "Show me," he says, and takes Sam's slick hand off his side and wraps it around Sam's dick, their fingers laced together. "C'mon, Sammy. Get off for me, I want to see it."

Sam groans, pushing up so air comes between them. "You said I was the menace," he says, almost accusing, and Dean smiles at him, moves their hands just enough to get a little slide. Sam takes over, immediately, a long pulling jerk, squeezing a little tighter at the base, and oh, okay. Yeah. He kneels up, his shoulder moving, the muscle in his arm and stomach clenching, and yeah, this is good, better than any porn. Dean licks his lips and Sam's part, and that gives Dean the idea—he pulls Sam's free hand up, sucks his thumb into his mouth and tongues at the salty pad of it, and Sam's fingers wrap around his jaw almost too tight but his dick spits wet down below, so clearly _that_ was right, and it's really not long at all before Sam's grip around his dick goes so strong Dean's fingers ache where they're wrapped together but then his eyes are closing and his head tips back on his shoulders and his dick swells even _bigger_ and then—he's spurting, long jets that stripe up Dean's stomach, up to his chest. He drags his teeth along Sam's thumb, works it out with him. Oh, man. Big dick and a big load, too. Dean's dick twitches, wanting more, and he carefully untangles his hand from Sam's, slips down to cup the weight of his balls, holding them gentle while Sam comes down.

"Good?" says Dean, when Sam eyes slit open and look down at him, and Sam snorts, the corner of his mouth turning up. Long fingers spread over his belly, wipe through the little puddles, and Sam's eyes sit heavy on that and—ah, okay. Another tell. Sam likes it wet. Well, Dean can go with that. "Messed me up, man," he says, low, and Sam leans down and then it's another round of kissing, Sam spreading out on top of him and caging him in and staking territory and really spreading the mess around and not helping, not at all.

When Sam seems to be done cataloging Dean's molars, he shifts just enough to the side that Dean's not actively going to suffocate. He wouldn't mind, just now. Sam can't stop touching his mouth, gentle brushing back and forth just under the swell of his now-sore lip, and Dean lets him, rubbing his thigh along Sam's to feel the prickle of hair. He traces his fingers over Sam's chest, where new hair's starting to come in. The soulless version must have waxed. Vanity was lurking in there, somewhere—who knew.

Vanity. Dean draws in a deep breath through his nose, dips his head a little to kiss Sam's thumb. "Hey, Sasquatch," he says. A low hum, acknowledging. Dean curls in so that Sam doesn't have to see his face, if he doesn't want. "Sorry. About the condom thing. Didn't realize what we were working with, here."

Sam's fingers are still, on his jaw. "I just—I try to work around it," he says, after a second, but he's tensing up and Dean can't have that. "No big deal."

"Opposite of that, actually." Dean keeps his voice light. He presses a kiss to Sam's throat, since it's right there, and hooks his hand over Sam's hip to make sure he can't roll away. "Just saying. I'm thinking, we're going to need practice. Not sure we got it right the first time. Lot of stuff still to try. Maybe we can get a condom that actually fits you, huh?"

Long pause, and Dean finally has to look up, has to know what Sam's thinking. He knows they're on the same page here, but—Sam's got an uncertain cast to his mouth and he meets Dean's eyes, but he doesn't look happy about it. "I don't, uh," he starts, frowning, but Dean shakes his head, tucks his hair behind his ear.

"You've got the best dick I've ever seen," Dean says, and he really tries not to make that as sleazy as it sounds. Sam's eyes tighten, a question there, but that's for later. If ever. "Just want to make sure I can get to know it, you know, _intimately_. Think we can make that happen?"

Sam shakes his head, but it's just standard Sammy, acting like Dean's not as brilliant and amazing as he clearly is. "Should've guessed that you'd be terrible at pillow talk." A smile's threatening, not quite there yet.

"Are you kidding me?" Dean says, outraged, and there it is, the smile blooms up, Sam rolling his eyes and propping his head on his hand. "I am the pillow talk master. I am the David Carradine of pillow talk, Grasshopper. I'll pillow talk your head off."

"I don't think that's the end goal, dude," Sam says, dimples curved into his cheeks and his eyes warm, and Dean rolls over and warms to his subject and has Sam under his hands, under his mouth, safe and whole and his. Everything else can wait. He's got a point to prove, here.

*

Later—

Just for his own edification, Dean takes some measurements. Sam doesn't want to, is embarrassed even if Dean promises he has absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, but Dean on his knees mouthing gently at the base and balls and nosing along the beautiful shaft hardens him up for it, and Dean whips out the string he got just for this purpose and finds out a few things. Holy lord in heaven. Dean drags Sam down on top of him and they rub off together in a messy tangle because Dean's so hot at the idea of it that he doesn't quite know what to do with himself, and luckily Sam doesn't mind. A little math, later, and Dean's mouth keeps flooding wet. No wonder the condom didn't fit.

He sends Sam out for food in the next big town they hit, and goes to a specialty store. They're going to need lube, and a lot of it, but he hits the condom racks first. He had to consult a size chart, online. What a life.

They haven't been careful, exactly. All of Dean's rules, thrown out the window. As it turns out, Sam really, really likes going downtown, and Dean's been sucked dry in three states now, and had himself licked out so wet and stupid he wanted Sam to just slide up his back and stick it in, but Sam held back and so Dean had to turn over and return the favor, even if he can only get about halfway down before his throat starts to rebel. Sam doesn't seem to mind though, especially with how reverently he says _Dean_ when he comes, his hands careful and hovering over Dean's ears and his thighs shuddering under Dean's hands. Yeah. It's good. It's definitely not clean, though, not safe, and maybe that doesn't matter, anymore—but there's still something he wants to try.

They eat the dinner Sam brought—burgers and fries and carrot sticks Sam rustled up somehow, because he's a dork—and they split a six-pack, sitting around while Dean laughs at the scream queens marathon and Sam half pays attention while digging through the internet for a job, and then after a while Dean can't take it anymore and disappears into the bathroom, cleans up. Takes his time. Oh, man, does he want this, and he's been waiting long enough. He wants to see the look on Sam's face.

He comes out of the bathroom in a towel and Sam's eyes flick up to him, and he can _see_ the focus lock in. Another new thing he's learned: the intensity of Sam's attention, heavy as iron. "You busy?" he says, fake-casual, and Sam closes the laptop, and stands up, and two long strides and Dean's borne down to the nearest bed, Sam's tongue in his throat, and okay, cool, this party's getting started.

Getting Sam naked is fun as hell, and getting him revved up and ready is funner still, but the look of frustrated confusion when Dean stops him from dipping down and getting between Dean's legs is just entertaining. "Don't give me the face," Dean says, panting, "I'm the one who's making a sacrifice here. Just hang on."

He hid the bag, kind of, under his jacket. When he turns around, Sam's sitting up, that beautiful dick swollen and laying heavy over his thigh, and even if Sam's frowning at him it's—a sight to see. "Got you something," Dean says, kneeling up on the bed. He lets the string of condoms furl out from his palm. "Well, uh, maybe I got me something."

Sam's face has gone tight and Dean comes in and kisses him, leaning down for once, Sam's hand light on his waist. He wants it tighter. Well, he'll get that, soon enough. "Let me try," he says, soft against Sam's lips, and Sam nods, even if he looks resigned.

Careful questioning led to the discovery that Sam's used the same brand his whole life: Durex, the same ones Dean used. One size fits most. Sam gave him a look like he didn't think Dean was being subtle. "Same kind Mrs. Carry used in sex ed, back in Hagerstown," he'd said, apparently engrossed in his newspaper. "She stretched it over her whole arm. No excuses not to use one. Sounded like she got it out of your playbook, huh?" Light, and easy, and not looking up. Dean had hummed, had let it go. Well, Mrs. Carry had the right idea, sort of, for most guys. Too bad Sam's not most guys. Too bad Sam took it to heart.

Dean sits in Sam's lap, squeezing at all that dick in an underhand grip, the head bumping the inside of his wrist. Sam's hands are getting firmer, his teeth sharper. He squeezes Dean's ass, tugs him closer, and Dean breaks away to breathe and Sam's teeth go to his collarbone, to his nipple, and while he can still think Dean tears a packet off the string, fumbles it open with a gush of squishy lube.

He tugs Sam back by the hair, dips down and kisses him. "Hang on," he mumbles, and leans his forehead against Sam's, looking down between them. God. He's hard, too, and it's still a shock to see Sam's dick curved up against his, huge next to his, a flash of almost queasy pleasure in the pit of his stomach. This is going to be so good.

He sets the circle on top of Sam's dick and pushes down, unfurling the latex in a smooth long smear. Easier than before, and Sam's breath hitches, his head turning down too so their cheeks are pressed together, both of them watching. Ultrathin, no bells and whistles, and the ring settles easy down at the base without digging in. Dean slides his hand back up through the lube, jacking smooth against the slick texture, making sure it fits right, his cheeks prickling with heat.

"What," Sam says, breathless, and Dean says, rough, "An arm isn't a dick, dumbass, it's always hard," and Sam says, _what?_ but it doesn't matter, doesn't matter because this one won't hurt Sam, this one fits because Sam's dick is special and needs a little special treatment, and maybe they won't ever use them again but the proof of concept is making Dean's dick leak without even being touched. _TheyFit_ should use this dick for marketing purposes, god.

"Got myself ready," Dean says, and Sam's head snaps up gratifyingly fast, his fingers finding the crack of Dean's ass and slipping through the wet there. "You think maybe we can put this thing to good use, Jolly Green?"

"You're an idiot," Sam breathes, in that way he does when he means anything but, and Dean kneels up and Sam scrunches down, his face all wonder, and the blunted smoothness when he presses up against where Dean's open and desperate is almost enough to make Dean come, right then. "Dean," says Sam, caught in his throat, and Dean digs a hand into Sam's hair, leans forward, Sam's hands coming to brace his hips, and he says, "Happy birthday, dork," and pushes down, blooms open and oh fuck, the size of it, painful and amazing all at once.

"My birthday isn't for months," Sam says, panting, and he tips up Dean's chin, watching his face all worried. No reason to—Dean works himself down, the condom smoothing the way, and it's massive and distracting and god, good, the seeping ache of it pushing through Dean's stomach, setting his thighs to quivering. Sam's hips twitch, his dick flexing inside, and he splays his fingers over Dean's cheek, mouth tight with effort. "Tell me," he says, eyes all over Dean's face, "tell me—"

"Fine, happy birthday to _me_ ," Dean says, rocking against Sam's hips, and Sam surges up, wraps his arms around Dean's waist, kisses him, fervent and brain-melting. "Yeah, I'm awesome," Dean mumbles, trying to think around the sensation of how Sam's flexing inside. "You think you can get this road on the show, man? How about a little something, you know, for the effort?"

Sam snorts, pulls back from his mouth, his hair a wreck and his eyes hot and his face just—everything. Everything. "Caddyshack?" he says, and Dean says, lightheaded, "If you don't like Caddyshack I could do Stripes, maybe," and Sam laughs and leans up and kisses him and fucks up with his hips simultaneously, and that's the last thing Dean says, for a very long time.

They keep the condoms. Turns out Dean's got a thing for them. Lucky for him, Sam (at last) doesn't mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the gentlemen at /r/bigdickproblems for giving me the idea.
> 
>  
> 
> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/180244531904/what-is-deans-reaction-upon-finding-that-sams)


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